


swallow my breath and take what is mine

by anacaoris



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Time, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Jaskier is Geralt's sugar daddy: a novel, M/M, Oral Sex, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anacaoris/pseuds/anacaoris
Summary: It began with the baths.It had been so easy to dismiss at first. Some attempted to win him over with kindness-with-a-catch when in need of something, a bed for the night, a pouch of coin, a good drink to lower the cost.Jaskier likes to take care of Geralt. Geralt very quickly takes notice.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 126
Kudos: 4279
Collections: Bruss, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY, Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette, favorites





	swallow my breath and take what is mine

It began with the baths. 

It had been so easy to dismiss at first. Some attempted to win him over with kindness-with-a-catch when in need of something, a bed for the night, a pouch of coin, a good drink to lower the cost. A witchers work was not free, Vesimir had drilled that into him before he properly hold a crossbow and the people knew it well enough, hoping that a free drink would cheapen the load and if he was feeling generous, if it was right — it did. 

So when the bard first drew hot water in a room Geralt needn’t pay for he’d assumed it was reason along those lines. He’d watched silently as oil and bath salt was poured in easy tandem, the scents surprising pleasant even to a sensitive nose. He noted the favouring of mild fruits, subtle goods. The opposite of what he’d assumed Jaskier would prefer, what with the bard’s blatant favouritism for the dramatic. 

When he’d asked that Geralt play guard for the night the looseness in his shoulders had tightened again. Confirmed in his thought that his price was too much without a play on friendship. He’d agreed, if only because he’d be the one putting up with repeated bitching had he not but it didn’t shake the way the water felt a touch colder and the sweet scents a little more bitter.

The next time that he’d felt heat rising and caught the running sound of water at whatever back alley inn Jaskier had charmed them into for the night he’d cut the bullshit. Blunt in demanding to know what it would cost him before climbing in. Suspicion had set in deep on his brow when blue eyes had gone wide — too innocent, too protesting.

_ Nothing, of course, have you smelt yourself lately? You smell like guts and, good god there’s somehow more blood. How did even get here! Oh, it’s crusty, get in the bath, Witcher! Now! _

He’d sunk into the heat waiting for the catch, watching every minute movement until the bard disappeared to his back and his eyelids fought to stay open against the onslaught of sensation that came from clever fingers taming the mangled knots in his hair. 

Geralt had fallen asleep to the low thrum of chatter at his ear and light hands on his shoulders, wavering pleasantly in the water, weightless with the smell of orange and buttercups in his nose.

The next morning Jaskier had kicked him half asleep and whined that he wanted breakfast. It was an easy cost, but Geralt had risen before the bard could argue. Assuming that was his duty for pay.

By the fifth session of pampering, he could call it nothing else. Hours of rubbing oils into aching muscles, his hair looking almost decent in the shimmer of candlelight, scars stopping itching for the first time in years, he could only assume Jaskier was working his way to ask for something bigger. 

The skepticism didn’t leave him, not when he demanded to know and got an airy laugh and a wave off in answer. 

_ I’m simply treating my friend, nothing wrong with that is there? Besides, until the next contract, your pouch is tight enough. I have plenty to spare, grumpy pants, my songs have never been more popular! Now then, enough paranoia! Do you think I should use Witch or Bitch? One is more raunchy, prone to controversy, naturally but —  _

Geralt sighs once more at the blatant misdirection. But he concedes to the point. He rarely gets such luxuries, if Jaskier wanted to pile it on he would put up with it and return the favour when he next ran into trouble. 

Jaskier was always running into fucking trouble. 

* * *

They did not stop after the next contract. 

The Ekimora had paid well, hell, it even ended with him being offered one of the better rooms at the local inn. He’d even gotten a damn thank you from the alderman and when he’d walked to the bar for a drink, he could barely count the darker looks on one hand. 

It was a good day, for a Witcher. Rarely was his work actually taken well, rarely did he bother to remain the night after but as Jaskier climbed the nearby table with a strum of song Geralt was met with refusal of his coin. 

_ Already paid for, witcher. Say no more.  _

Jaskier only beamed at the glare thrown his way, seemingly oblivious to the confusion bubbling in his chest. Over a year they had been travelling now, often spending weeks in damp woodlands, days without clean water but any time they met civilization Jaskier seemed to think he was incapable of making his own living. 

He means to bring it up with the bard. Snap that he’s not a child to care for, that he coped plenty well enough without the wailing songs and damn publicity stunt the other was pulling. He didn’t need to be bought, he wasn’t a whore for hire — he means to argue, he does. 

The heat leaves him when he reaches his room and Jaskier is tucked cross-legged on the bed, preparing oils for him again. Perhaps it’s an enchantment, a trick. Coaxing him into a state of calmness at the smell of one simple thing, yet his medallion doesn’t even hum as he breathes it in and it leaves him on a heavy sigh.

When Jaskier delightedly waves him over Geralt rolls an aching shoulder, presses a hand to where the vampire had caught his side and thinks he can have it out with him later.

* * *

Geralt had barely grown accepting of the baths and oils when he began noticing the treats. Laid about with deliberate placement for him to find, in his food pouch, tucked in his pocket. Small sweets, hard and smelling of sugar. Cakes, freshly brought from the bakery they had passed. 

Frivolous and unnecessary. With contracts sparse and how terribly they kept, he couldn’t afford to waste money on cakes and tarts when he needed things that would keep him alive. Silver, armor, herbs, and magic. Everything in his arsenal to make it to the next road. It mattered little that his mouth watered at the smell each time he walked before an open door, that fondness settled in his gut for sweet pies and pastries. 

When he was a child he’d adored them. His mother had been a cook past anyone else in the area, now, he got them on occasion when a blithering noble or playful sorceress pouch fat with coin needed his help. It wasn’t him who’d brought them and he’d made no friends in passing that would dare to slip him something without making it clear they were doing so, fishing for the kindness, begging him to stroke their need to be a savior in giving him aid. 

His eyes flick across the campfire to where Jaskier has a quill in his mouth, glaring at a page as though it had profoundly offended him. There’s ink on his fingertips and his hair is a mess from the last storm that caught them unaware but he seems to care little for Geralt’s unimpressed attention, looking up only to offer him a grin before looking down again. 

The Witcher thinks of throwing it at his head. Sweet treats, hot baths, none of it would win his approval and it wouldn’t earn him any compliments for that goddamn song. But it would be a waste. The tart is full of raspberry, cooked in honey glaze and it’s wrapped so carefully that it would be a shame to ruin it teaching the idiot bard a lesson. 

Geralt sinks his teeth into it with a half-hearted frown and pretends not to notice the way that Jaskier smirks around his pen. It’s good. Cooked perfectly, the fruits simmered right, melting on his tongue and having him closing his eyes for just a minute with a hum of approval. 

The other was clearly thinking himself so clever. You can’t fool a Witcher and the next time he tried to sneak something into his storage, Geralt would order Roach to kick him right in his arse.

* * *

He finds a bag of hard-boiled sweets in her side bags four weeks later and can only hiss a furious  _ traitor _ even as he sucks one onto his tongue and savours the bite of it. 

She headbutts him in the stomach for the slight. 

* * *

Two years on the road and his days are longer when they are quiet. Somewhere along the way between battles and spats with destiny he had grown accustomed to the usual ripple of music through his small campsites, the quiet snuffles of a bedroll next to his. Even the infernal singing at any given opportunity. 

He realises he misses Jaskier mid-way through a bite of the catch he’d found in the woodlands, when the wind is all he has for company aside from Roach who seems to feel the same, pawing the ground with as much disdain as he feels. 

* * *

When they meet him again the bard has grown even further in popularity, the tavern booming with the scents of joy and the mess of quickened heartbeats. Roach is the one who turns sharply on the path, prancing off to the tavern as if telling Geralt that if he won’t go, she’ll damn well take him. He puts up little fight, relief in the way he climbs from her back to the sound of familiar laughter.

The idiot hadn’t gotten himself killed yet and he hadn’t changed much at all, despite the years. When he pushes open the door it takes precious little time to be noticed and before he can conjure a growl of discontent arms are thrown around him, hands gripping his shoulders with a stream of never-ending endearments. 

_ Geralt! Oh, fancy seeing you here my friend! It’s been too long, let me look at you. You look like shit, have you been eating well enough? How did it go in Skellige, you must tell me all about it! Is that a new scar? Oh my goodness that’s more than one, what on earth happened? _

It’s a surprising amount of effort to turn his face away from a warm hand on his cheek and bat away pawing touches. Grunting that he’s fine, he always is. He’d been doing this a damn sight longer than the bard had been alive but the abrasiveness doesn’t sway the other who only offers a blinding smile and waves him over to a chair. 

When he asks if Jaskier has been in any trouble lately the sensation of a twist in his gut at the wink it earns him is new and Geralt does what he does best, raises the flagon of ale slid towards him and dutifully pretends not to notice.

* * *

Finding each other once more only seems to renew Jaskier’s belief that Geralt needs tending to. It’s not even a night before he finds his bag packed again with herbs. The right ones, to his shock and quiet pride, a new shirt laid out on the bed and his food pack stocked once more.

He wonders how Jaskier is making it into his damn room in his sleep, why he isn’t waking at his presence. Witchers slept light, you had to when most of your sleeping was in the open under a dangerous moon with half the world wanting you dead. Even in Kaer Morhen, a creaking floorboard was enough to wake a dorm of them. Jaskier had successfully gotten into his room, rooted through his things and left without even a fucking stir. 

Yet he couldn’t be that subtle when traipsing through woodlands, making enough noise to wake every ghost, ghoul, and biter in the general area. Incredible.

Bundling the shirt in his fist the warm feeling of pleasure at having a companion again is swept away on the knowledge that he’s back to being treated like an invalid. Debating tossing it in the gutter or better yet, cutting it up to make bandaging. 

But his fingers curl through soft cotton and he can’t help but admire how well made it is. Loose enough to be moved in but fitted enough not to make his armor rub or bulk uncomfortably. Clearly, it was thoughtfully chosen, carefully crafted and as much as he doesn’t need it — his other had at least a battle left of life — it did mean he had no reason to waste coin on a new one for a few more months. 

Geralt allows the way that Jaskier fusses with his collar, grunting at the complement of his person in it. Of course it looked good, it probably cost more than three of his others combined. 

Jaskier’s fingers linger on the spot just below his pulse and Geralt stares down the distance between them growing shorter as the bard plucks a stray thread and soothes down the leather of his shoulders. 

The moment is wrenched aside when the stable boy comes with Roach in hand, a mad man might even think she was laughing at him with how she nudges his back and nickers at his misery, watching Jaskier hurry off inside to pay the bill. 

* * *

It all comes to a head when they reach Oxenfurt. 

The bath was common point by now and as he steps out of it Geralt has to admit he’s better off for them. Bones that had healed unset and scars burnt by magic ached less and less, seemed no longer as angry or coloured. His skin still tingled from expert touches, Jaskier kneading healing oils and familiar scents into his skin right to the pads of his fingers, working him over until the Witcher had gone lax, slid slightly further into the water and near fucking purred in contentment at it. 

This he allowed. This he didn’t fuss over as much. If only because he’d pay a whore for the pampering and none of them did quite the job Jaskier did working the knot from his shoulder or showed as much care in working guts and mess from his hair without ripping or pulling on it. 

Aside from that, it was near impossible to ignore the steady heartbeat at his back, the subtle scent of pride and comfort that came from Jaskier each time. It seemed to make him happy servicing him, as insane and bewildering as it was, it left Geralt in too much of a decent mood to speak of it. 

It is the words spoken after that ruins all hope of quietly passing over this… thing Jaskier was doing. Geralt drying off as the bard fussed with laying his armor out to dry and tutted —  _ tutted _ goddamn it — at the state of it. 

“We need to get you some new leathers, darling. These are in a right state, a werewolf again? For the Gods’ sake…” 

Geralt misses the rest of the theatrical tangent, pausing even in toweling silver strands to stare at the bard like he’s gone quite mad. Foolish as it may be, his mind lingers on the first word. The claim of it. 

_ We need to.  _

_We_. 

In a rush, he looks back through the years and tries to figure out where  _ I _ and  _ they _ became  _ we _ . Where Jaskier began worrying for the state of his armor, where Geralt allowed it. A Witcher’s armor was their life. Their swords were their work, yes, but a fang in the wrong place, a hit at the wrong joint and no sword would matter. When that happened, it was their armor that kept them going, which allowed them to carry on fighting harder than before.

The only ones who touched it were those who forged it and those who needed it. Hell, they spent years learning how to get into it by themselves, how to adjust it with one hand and a blade in the other. There was no we in their lifestyle, no we in battle and no  **we** on the road.

“This needs to stop.” 

As rapidly as it leaves him, he regrets it. Jaskier stiffens visibly, knuckles white before he can force them to relax and at that moment Geralt watches the lax comfortability of a friend become something colder, walls raising, edging him in how blue eyes flash over and disappear again. 

“I know the bard is new, Geralt, but there’s no need to be rude. The song can barely be heard from here.” 

He can’t fall into this again. Not again. 

Jaskier is so good at distractions, turning words around like a dance and letting them fall dizzy to the floor. Forgotten amongst the drinks and smiles. Years,  _ years _ they’d been travelling and years the man had been pouring luxuries onto him with the subtlety of an ox, coaxing him into trouble he never needed to be in. 

Geralt isn’t sure he can pay whatever the world will demand for having enjoyed it anymore.

“Stop playing stupid. It doesn’t suit you. This needs to stop, the baths, the treats, all of it. You’re not as stealthy as you damn well think.” 

The click of Jaskier’s throat is loud in the now silent room and Geralt expects what would come next. The scent of fear when faced with a witcher, acrid, vile. He’d not smelt it on Jaskier, not directed at him, but for all his bluster and pushing he’d never truly snarled the way he was now. Hackles raised, confusion warring with pride on his face.

“I don’t need your fucking charity. I’ll buy my own gear, I always have.” 

The fear doesn’t come. At this point, he’s uncertain why he ever imagined that he could predict a response from Julian bloody Pankratz. Every turn, every time the bard has shocked him. Done the opposite of what any logical human being would do. 

He’d followed Geralt into the darkness and back. Stayed despite the screams of nightmares that came from bad hunts, met him with a giddy smile after Geralt had nearly taken everything on a turbulent wish. 

In place of fear, there is only a look of… fondness. He doesn’t know what else to call it, the way Jaskier tilts his head and meets his eyes unabashed. Though his heartbeat is humming quickly, it’s not afraid. 

“Is that what you think this is? Geralt, Geralt, Geralt, how can such a brilliant man be so very stupid.” 

He damn near reels at the insult. Too caught off guard to bare his teeth at it, tracking the quick steps Jaskier takes to place down the breastplate and close the space between them. He’s struck, not for the first time, at how easily he does that. Places himself so dangerously close to a wolf’s teeth, no regard for his own safety. 

Or maybe he just knows he has no reason to worry. Knows that for all Geralt postures, hurting Jaskier is the last thing he would do with a choice. One day, he would figure out how the bard had come to know him so well when everyone else saw only the legends about them. 

“It was never charity. I wouldn’t think to challenge you in such a way, aside from that you hardly need it. I know that you fare plenty well without me, I know that you don’t need me to go on. Why would I give Charity where there’s none to be given? Really, it’s a little insulting you think me so easy.” 

Geralt wants to say that he’s wrong. On so many things. That Geralt survives when they’re apart but there’s no ease of it. The quiet now too loud, the room too empty. How Jaskier ruined everything he had in living just by being able to take it away. 

The words don’t come. He was never good with them the way he wanted to be, caught in his throat on hums and rumbles, a man trying to talk with the mouth of a monster. 

“You know, when I first met you I noticed that you were all alone in your corner. Despite everything you had done, people wouldn’t spare you a glance. You ate as though you expected not to again for some time, but you ate it all the same. And when I began to travel with you I — I realised that it’s not that you weren’t capable of getting yourself the coin or fetching what you needed, it’s that you would much rather give it to someone else. Gods, the number of times you would give your coin to a suffering father or buy a treat for the children on the streets despite meaning you would have to sleep in the woods!” 

The laughter sounds wrong. Breathless, not entirely honest. Laced with a quiver and when Jaskier looks up from turning his hands about themselves Geralt is hit with the realisation that its nervousness he’s seeing. True nervousness, not the coquettish thing he does in court or when caught with someone he shouldn’t be. It trembles on his tongue, in his fingers and brings a fetching pinkness to his cheeks. 

“I knew then that it’s not that you couldn’t have such things, it’s that you wouldn’t if it meant another had to go without them. I — as foolish as it may seem, I realised that you were a better man, suffering for the happiness of others. It wasn’t fair.” 

Many times in his life Geralt had been caught at a crossroad where every turn seemed inescapable. Destiny finding delight in his turmoil, watching him run and race down an unbeaten path as if thinking he could escape it and every time he was proven wrong. Every time it only followed with a beat.

The feeling creeps into his gut now. Settles in his eyes, a flash of knowing that if he turned away he would be shunning something that would bite him in the ass later. He would be wasting something that was supposed to be his. 

For the first time in a long time, he had no desire to shun it, when Jaskier’s fingers curl at his jaw, thumb lightly along his skin, Geralt does not pull away. 

“I know you don’t need these things to be content. I know that you don’t need my help. I want to give them, I want to offer them all the same. You deserve to be happy, to spoil yourself, to indulge. I do not see why surviving must sacrifice living, but if you won’t allow yourself to enjoy things, I will be sure to give them if I can. Because I-” 

Geralt silences whatever was going to leave him next with a kiss that’s bordering on desperate. Bruising against his mouth, stealing the confession as though it would not bleed through in every touch he offered. 

The sound that Jaskier gives is obscene. A moan that curls through his chest and into Geralt’s, leaving him to scramble against the witcher for a moment in order to keep up with the abrupt movement. It had been a thoughtless act, built on instinct and years of pent up emotion mingled in adventure but now that he has it, the taste of Jaskier on his tongue and the heat of him burning up with every part of his lips and catch of teeth he’s not planning to stop. 

Fuck it all, if Jaskier wanted to give then he’d be the monster everyone thinks he is and take it. 

Finding the wall is a blessing, bracing himself against it and crowding Jaskier between the surface and his chest, back braced to the outside world, warm, protected - the Gods he can chase the sensation here, revel in the way that the bard gasps and bites his nails into the witchers hips, anchoring himself against the onslaught. 

“Geralt, Geralt —” 

The sound of his name is reverent, a feeling of possessiveness keeps it. Tuck it away from anyone who’d hope to hear it again rearing its head, mouth running marks along the underside of Jaskier’s jaw in encouragement. 

“As incredible as this, oh mother of all Gods, Geralt, Geralt  **stop** .” 

The pain that lances from a tight fist in his hair forces his back to arch and his body to tighten like a loaded coil, breath catching in his throat when his eyes open to see Jaskier before him, mouth red and slick, eyes bright in rings around black pupils. 

Was he regretting it already? Or had he misread, listening to the skip of a heartbeat and breathing in the scent of arousal building heady and thick? It’s not permission though and for all he is, shredding claws of silver and bloody fangs, he won’t force it. 

“No, no, don’t look at me like that it’s not a bad stop. Don’t stop, stop I just, one moment if you please.” 

A sucked in woosh of air and Geralt’s gaze falls back to the way that Jaskier’s mouth is fuller, sinful in promise, lost on the kindness it spills with every parting. When the bard wets his lower lip he mimics the movement, offers a curl of a smirk when it draws a momentary whine from the other.

“Is this… truly something you want? I don’t need repaying. I don’t want you to feel you have to, to feed my perversions. You understand? Because if I have you once, I’m not sure I’ll be content in our usual routine of leaving things unsaid after. Contrary to your belief, I do not intentionally set out in an attempt to be hurt.” 

And again it’s worry for him. Worry for someone who could take him in one hand and cut all hope of breathing again. Worry for Geralt like he matters. It sits in his throat, has him breathing sharply through his nose and dropping his face to a slim shoulder, breathing him in, nosing close to his pulse enough to press his mouth over it, feel it quicken further beneath him. 

So reactive, wanting and all he’s doing is fretting at every step for Geralt’s needs. Fuck. 

Fingers flex in his hair, running a shudder down his spine at the spark of it. Part of him wishes he knew better what to say, that this could be simpler. That he was born with the same poetry spilling from him enough to say all that he tucks in his lungs but he’s not, he’s better with action, better with showing just what he needs to mean so Geralt brings a hand up, curls it around Jaskier’s and keeps it in messy locks, still damp from the bath as he sinks to his knees.

“Sweet merciful blessings, I will, ah, I’ll take this as a  _ ye-ehs _ .”

Geralt gives a rough sound of amusement at the hitch in vocals. It’s been years since he’s done this but a Witcher doesn’t forget their talents and slipping apart the threads at Jaskier’s hips only furthers the determination, glancing up to check the poor bard hasn’t had a heart attack on him only to find blue eyes watching keenly, pleased when the touch at the back of his head only urges him on.

He’s aware of the babbling going on above him, rough and messy commentary that does nothing to still the moment, nosing the curls just above silk trousers before he hooks his fingers into them and pulls, biting back a grin that’s all teeth when they rip beneath the pressure, ruining the loud complaint that Jaskier erupts in by wrapping his fingers about the jut of a thick cock, already half hard but so easily coaxed to fullness by calloused hands and the rush of breath over a flushed tip. 

Anticipation builds as he savours it. The way Julian’s thighs clench for a moment and his hips stutter against him, the minute tug at his hair as if pleading silently. Geralt had always loved sex, the rush of it, closeness of another person no matter how fleeting that worked all the fight from him. Women are soft, sweet curves, teasing smiles. They can bite and claw and have him over and over but men are greedy, bruising touches, demand. 

Jaskier is neither. The grip on him is just the right side of tight but he doesn’t push it along. He let’s Geralt set the pace, even at the risk of his own pleasure being prolonged and when Geralt drags a tongue up him slow and testing he gives a moan that’s all praising.

“Just like that, look at you, the songs I could write _.” _

Typically it would earn a curled lip in warning. Talk of ballads enough, dislike for the tales it brings and the way people talk but Jaskier drops his head back with a thud to the thin wall behind him and rolls his hips up to meet the way that Geralt opens his mouth to take him deeper, jumping at the hard suck he gives where his usual warnings fail. The protest is lost in the way he fucks himself deeper, tries to take all he can until he’s struggling to swallow around him, wet and filthy, dripping down his chin. 

“You’re _ beautiful. _ ”

Geralt pulls back to breathe, jaw aching, the groan he gives broken and desperate. Hell knows he should have some form of shame but he doesn’t, reaching down to throw aside the cover from the bath, taking himself in hand and throwing himself back in with renewed vigor at the friction on his cock. 

It’s incredible, the duel sensation. Mouth held open by Jaskier’s hand, the feeling of having his throat filled and used whilst he thrusts slopping into his own touch, twisting his wrist and squeezing until the room is filled with his own steady rumbles, moan and whines. Distantly aware that Jaskier is so much quieter than him then, giving ragged breathes and mirroring the occasional moan but otherwise wrapped entirely in watching him. 

The knowledge that he’s worked Jaskier into silence just from having him like this is enough to finish him entirely. Gutting him open, leaving all the darker secrets he’d kept from years of close companionship laid out and vulnerable. Spilling over his hand, onto the floor, shuddering through it with each aftershock. 

It’s Julian that pulls away this time, still hard, pearled tip and barely steadying himself against the wall before his touch leaves Geralt’s hair, a delicious throb behind, to stip down. Tracing the line of sensitive lips, pressing between them against sharp teeth and dragging against his tongue. 

Hazily he draws them deeper, giving a heavy mm when the bard gives his quiet blasphemy again. Fighting the weight in his head and warmth in his cheeks to frown around the touch. Unamused by Jaskier’s knowing smirk in answer.

“Oh don’t fret love, I’m not done with you yet. I just wanted to be sure you were still present.”

_ Love _ . 

Geralt shakes his head to clear the daze but it seldom works. Always one for basking after a good fuck but he’s usually more controlled, always expecting a knife under a pillow or a rushed payment after. None of that happens between them, instead when Jaskier taps under his chin and croons at him to get up he sighs put upon and stands. Raising unsteadily, rolling his eyes when Julian keeps him grounded.

This had better not go to his already inflated head.

“On the bed, if you would. On your back, I want to see you.” 

He blinks for a good few seconds before realising that Jaskier is talking to him. Raising one eyebrow at the expectation he’d allow it even as he follows the instruction, dropping down onto silken sheets with a grunt, arching his back and working the bruise from his knee with a slight curl of his lips at the open admiration given to him from across the room. 

“Going to keep staring or get over here and fuck me, bard?” 

“Right, yes. Absolutely.” 

It’s comfortable between them. No uncertain looks or bashful covers. Jaskier works efficiently to remove all those damn buttons, throwing aside his clothes with an eagerness that has him huffing a hoarse laugh before moving to the bed with a bottle of oil in one hand and a look that has him closing his eyes against it. 

“Don’t do that. Open your eyes.” 

The warmth of another body settles over him, weighted and tender. The kiss pressed to his temple and down over his cheek to his jaw before finally slipping against his mouth relaxing him again until he’s drained of all fight, sinking into the sheets and letting gold slit beneath his lashes. 

“They’re stunning you know. Your eyes, all of you really, but I’ve always adored them. The way you looked at me, you near had me undone just like that.” 

All powers above this is going to be a constant thing, isn’t it? His cock twitching, trying to rise again before even Witchers stamina will allow it. Jaskier continuing unphased by the pleading look for mercy as he continues on, pushing open scarred thighs, pressing a blazing trail of kisses down further and further until he can press one over the elevated beat in Geralt’s chest.

“Perfect. Each part of you. To think, tonight you’re all mine.” 

The hiss comes through his teeth, bucking against curious probing, the circling of slick touch against his hole. Should have damn well pegged the bard for a tease, someone who enjoys taking his time to learn everything before leaving it more than it ever began. 

“Are you going to keep talking?” 

“I think I shall, you seem to rather like it. You did just make the mess to prove it, didn’t you? Besides, you deserve to know. I’ve kept quiet long enough.” 

Geralt turns his gaze upwards at the sheer idea of Jaskier being silent for anything but he knows the truth in the claim and it seems both have said less and more than intended. For all his distractions, for all that leaves him constantly, Julian had struggled just as much with saying what he meant. 

In a sense, he’s thankful and torn on telling him to shut up. He’s filling again, half hard as one finger turns to two and the feeling of mild curiosity becomes a stretch, scissoring apart, curling, seeking and he knows just what it is the other hopes to find, just how he’ll lose all hope of regaining his carefully crafted when he does.

The bolt of electricity rips a cry from him that’s ragged and ruined by an already raw throat, muscles jumping, legs drawing up and to encourage more of it. He’d nearly forgotten how it felt to have this, mounted and fucked. Been a damn long time since he’s trusted anyone at his back for it and on his front it’s so much more intense, each time he pries his eyes open he can see the curl of pleasure on Julian’s face. The way he’s biting his lip to be patient, the open, un-restrained care in his eyes.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Can you take a little more?” 

The nod is slightly too eager if the crack of a grin is anything to go by, reaching up to brace his hands against the headboard and push back when another fingers presses against him, bearing down and helping to open himself and wipe the smugness from the bard’s expression all in one manoeuvre. 

“Good boy.” 

_ Goddamn it.  _

“Jas, Jaskier! fuck, get in me before I kick you out of here and finish myself off.” 

“Mm. Bossy, bossy.” 

His growl of frustration is met with a sharp bite to his throat in retaliation, deep enough that there’s a flickering scent of blood and a flash of pain that goes right through him and Geralt taken just as much by surprise as Julian when it causes him to go string tight and then buck up and shudder his way through a second orgasm, stomach tight, cock jumping. 

There’s a startled beat of silence where the only break is his stuttering whine of annoyance at the wide-eyed look of awe on Jaskier’s face. Kicking out just a bit to remind him to move his arse, glad when it works and blue eyes close for patience in order to tip the last of the oil onto his cock, drenching it, climbing over Geralt with an air of barely concealed need.

It wouldn’t be anything delicate or laced in finesse. Geralt is too sensitive and Julian has held on for so long that he’s a trigger hair from madness with the want for release but the push of him, sinking hot and thick into Geralt is everything he needed. Falling lax against the bed with his eyes rolled back, content to ride the waves of the last moments in all their glory. Feeling more satisfied than he has in months. 

It’s the last moment that he drags himself up onto one elbow, taught with the thought of seeing Jaskier fall apart for him. He’s thrumming, lazy and loose but he slips his hand to the back of his bard’s neck, draws him down to press their foreheads together which only allows Jaskier to fuck deeper into him, the angle an incredible one. Blue eyes meeting gold. 

He would live a long time, there would be many things he would take to his grave, treasure in memory and this — this would be one of them. 

“C’mon. I’m all yours.” 

The information that Jaskier was a possessive little bastard was neatly filed away for later, even in a lust addled mind but there’s nothing more beautiful than the way a swollen mouth falls open, lashes fluttering. He’s dripping with seed when Julian finally drops down onto his chest, panting and he goes with him gladly, knowing well enough that another bath would be needed thanks to this. 

That would come later. No doubt, so would the talks. Always talking, his bard and there was much to talk about, where they stood, what this meant. If it would happen again. 

Unwilling to break the blissful moment Geralt drags his hand over Jaskier’s damp back, follows the line of fingerprints over his shoulder, tucks curls behind his ear and sighs lightly at the way Julian leans into it. 

As the sweat cools on their skin and exhaustion sets in Geralt replays the night in his head once, twice, swallowing down the fluttering in his chest and focusing instead on the half-asleep tune Julian was humming. 

“What was going to say. Before.” 

“Mm? Oh, before you jumped me like a rather dashing rogue? Go ahead, say it, say you couldn’t resist my cutting charm and sharp wit.” 

Give him strength. 

Shoving at Jaskier’s shoulder the laughter shared between them is not long but it’s full of unspoken promise. Raising his brows expectantly and watching the way that Julian pushes himself up, the shift keeping him inside of Geralt, forcing a small noise of question when a flushed face comes closer.

He knows. A part of him does. Driven on instinct, hope, destiny. A cacophony of all that should be and had been because of their actions, driven by choice and desire but hearing it changes everything. 

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia and you deserve to be happy.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Swallow my breath and take what is mine - by Anacaoris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23810770) by [LenaReads (LenaLawlipop)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenaLawlipop/pseuds/LenaReads)




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